Children of the Barricade
by AnnaTheVisitor
Summary: A story I couldn't resist writing... The Friends of the ABC and their internal struggles before the revolution. I'm having a little fun with it. Come, drink with me! A humongous thank-you to ChildrenxOfxThexBarricade. tumblr. com and its Anons for the inspiration. I love you all!
1. Chapter 1

I'M SORRY I JUST HAD TO, OKAY

Children of the Barricade

Enjolras sat at his desk, bent over a slew of papers with his head in his hands. He wanted to get it done, really he did; nothing was more important to him than his Patria.

_Patria_. Just her _name_ sent a shiver of pleasure up his spine. He would do anything for her, his Bonnie lass the maiden of France. The very spirit of France herself. He would set her free.

Freedom. Yes, this was his inspiration. Freedom. Freedom from oppression, from the sickness and the disease that was the King of France. Accursed King! Enjolras plucked his pen from its inkwell to begin his papers again. The drunken singing of his comrades echoed through the halls, unheard by Enjolras. The beating of his heart echoed the beating of the drums he could almost hear now. They just needed a sign. Soon he could have all of France defend his beloved Patria.

* * *

Grantaire threw his head back, downing the dregs of the bottle he clasped by the neck in his hand. The world around him was a little fuzzy, warm and fuzzy, like colors swirling; like a Van Gogh painting. What if Van Gogh had been drunk while painting all those lovely paintings? The thought made him laugh, and he was vaguely aware of others joining him in his humour. Combeferre and Marius sat near him, wearing grins and clutching shot glasses.

_Amateurs_, Grantaire thought, turning in search of a new bottle. Joly stood with one leg on a chair, relating a story to Lesgles and Feuilly. Jehan he found sitting in a chair, scribbling in his notebook again. Grantaire grinned a crooked grin. He wasn't quite drunk enough to love dear Jehan yet. Madame Hucheloup sat behind the bar in her favorite chair, cleaning out various glasses.

Grantaire stumbled up to her.

"Got anything for me, lovely lady? Preferably wine?" Grantaire didn't notice her get up, or make a face at him, or even move until she slammed a bottle in front of his face. "Thank you, Madame," he slurred, catching the bottle from the counter and returning to his spot near Combeferre.

* * *

Jehan sighed, cradling the side of his face in one hand. His knees were drawn up close to support the notebook he wrote on, pinning it to his thighs with the side of his other hand, his writing hand, a pen captured between his fingers. Oh, how Jehan loved these moments, when inspiration struck his heart and he had time to put it into words. Around the lovely poem he had scrawled in his soft loopy writing, sketched hollyhocks and hyacinth and lilies grew. He smiled the smallest smile, signing his name at the bottom of the page with a flourish.

_Of what sweet music_

_Such grows by the light of dawn_

_The same sun that kindles a thousand gardens_

_The same sun that warms a thousand faces_

_Sweet music of birdsong and lute_

_A tousling breeze through the grass_

_The sweet music of laughter_

_The happiness of your beloved_

_All touched _

_Gilded_

_By the sun_

_What gift of grace _

_Has been bestowed upon the hearts of men_

_That they beat together _

_To make the sweet music of the world_

_-Jean Prouvaire_

Jehan beamed at his work, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear. Boisterous laughter echoed about the room, but Jehan did not partake in the consumption of alcohol tonight. He much enjoyed this time to himself, in the presence of his closest friends, where he could watch and observe without the paranoia of being watched himself.

Suddenly, Jehan felt a twist in his gut. A longing. He loved his friends, his Amis, he truly did, but what he wouldn't give for the tender and forgiving arms of a woman who loved him. _To sleep, perchance to dream. Aye, there's the rub, _he quoted to himself. He wanted to hold a lady in his arms, to see adoration and acceptance in her eyes. Was it too much to ask? His heart leapt with desire; the loving embrace of a maiden, yes. Jehan began at his notebook once more.

* * *

Grantaire looked around, trying to focus without giving much effort. Where was Enjolras? He'd barely seen him all night.

"Alright," Grantaire spoke, causing his small group of men to turn towards him, "if you were Enjolras, what would you be doing?"

"Working on the Revolution," four voices chorused. Combeferre jerked his chin towards Enjolras' study, a slow smile blooming on his face.

"My thoughts exactly," Grantaire muttered to both answers. With that, he turned to the lit doorway, nearly tripping over a chair.

"What is that boy getting himself into?" Marius shook his head, sipping from a glass of brandy.

"He can't help loving Enjolras," Bahorel defended Grantaire. "I don't know a single man in here who wouldn't be gay for the fellow." He raised his eyebrow, daring the others to deny him.

No one did.

* * *

Grantaire leaned on the door jamb of Enjolras' study, crossing his arms over his chest. His weight made the wood creak, alerting Enjolras of Grantaire's presence. Enjolras, however, ignored it.

"Leave," he said without turning.

Grantaire flinched at the harshness of the word. "Goodness, and here I come to make kindly conversation," he said sarcastically, taking a step into the room. He noticed how Enjolras held his head in his hands, with the heels of his palms pressed into his eyebrows and his fingertips in his hair. How Grantaire wished they were his own fingertips there, that he might fondle Enjolras' golden curls. A strange thought, yet utterly maddening. Without question, Grantaire reached out to fulfill the desire. He crossed the room in three steps to lay his hand upon Enjolras' head-

Enjolras whirled, out of the chair and facing Grantaire with a livid expression on his face in less than a second, a violent shudder wracking his body. Grantaire's eyes roved across that body, the flawlessness of his build and the hard muscles of his chest. The top button of his _bouton de chemise_ hung loose, revealing the mesmerizing way his collarbones curved away from the hollow at the base of his throat. Grantaire couldn't control himself. He reached towards the beautiful sight, wanting to feel it under his fingers.

Enjolras intercepted his hand mid-reach, before they could trace the soft-looking skin of his neck. Though his grasp was crushingly tight, Grantaire's lips parted at the touch, struck to the bone in a moment of breathless delight.

"Get. Out." Enjolras threw Grantaire's hand back at him; he stretched his fingers to retrieve sense of touch. They were purple with lack of blood.

"Oh, Enjolras," Grantaire sighed, ignoring his warning. "Just one night, give up. Let your dear Patria be. Your nation can survive without you for just one night-"

Grantaire was cut short by the look on Enjolras' face. "I can't afford to lose a night. I can't afford to lose one second. There is work to be done. There are plans to be made. My Patria may be able to survive without me, but I refuse to survive without her. Get _out_, you drunken bastard, before I retrieve my bayonets."

Grantaire drew back, stung. But not quite shocked. No, this was just the sort of thing Enjolras would say. Their faces crumpled at the exact same moment, and Enjolras slumped back to his desk and into the same position he'd held before. Grantaire reached for his shoulder, meaning to convey apology and support, but in a rare moment of realization he caught himself, and turned from the room without a word.

* * *

"Did you know," Feuilly began, and the small group of students groaned, "that before adopting Christianity as their dominant religion, Poland believed in the god of war, fertility, and abundance? In fact, their capital city, Warsaw, means 'belonging to war.' I'm going to visit Poland one day, just you wait-"

"Yes, Feuilly, and send us a postcard," Lesgles interrupted, earning some chuckles.

"You talk too much of the future," Combeferre declared. "Let us drink to today!" The group of friends cheered, raising their glasses. Jehan rose from his spot in the corner to secure a toast, and Grantaire found a glass to raise as he approached the table.

"Let us drink to the night," Combeferre continued, "to the present in which we find ourselves alive and healthy. Let us drink to the Friends of the ABC!"

"To the _Amis de l'ABC_!" they repeated as one.

**Okay I'm sorry this was my first FanFiction for Les Mis and I just had to put it out there. I get a lot of inspiration from childrenxofxthexbarricade. tumblr. com, if you want to check it out ^^ please don't judge me, there are sOoOo many places I want to take this. They're in character now, but heh, just you wait. I'm excited! Don't forget to review! 3**

**Love**

**Anna**


	2. Chapter 2

**Ohmigosh I can't believe people actually liked my story wow you are all beautiful people I wish I could give you all French cockades (those little tricolor circle thingies they wear over their hearts) and I'll try to write as fast as I can once I have a little free time and stuff so yeah**

**Thank you so much =^^=**

Children of the Barricade

Courfeyrac dropped a small stack of papers on Enjolras' desk. He didn't flinch at the added mass to his table; he barely moved at all save his lips when he murmured a small thank-you to Courfeyrac.

"Enjolras..."

"I'm busy, Courfeyrac. If it's not of immediate importance, then I haven't the time."

A slight pause resounded in which the only sound was Enjolras' pen on paper before Courfeyrac spoke again. "It_is_important. Enj, you've been working yourself to death. Ease up. Take a break. How many hours of sleep have you gotten in the last week?_Ten_? You can't-"

"Oppression does not rest, Courfeyrac. My name is not Enj, and yes, as a matter of fact, I_can_work a week on ten hours of sleep. Kindly leave my study." He glanced at the stack of paper Courf had set on his desk; atop the stack lay a letter from Monsieur Du Revoiler. Enjolras closed his eyes. "Would you mind sending Combeferre in?"

"What, I'm not good enough?" Courfeyrac teased. The look Enjolras leveled at him had him wrinkle his nose and turn toward the door, but not before reaching across the space between them to muss Enjolras' hair. His hand was batted away with a loud_smack_and what could only be described as a growl. Courfeyrac left the room laughing.

* * *

"_What_?" Combeferre, holding the letter at his nose, jerked his hands down to look at Enjolras. He sat calmly, brow furrowed, hands steepled, deep in thought. "I don't..." Combeferre felt the sudden need to sit down. He let his right hand, still clutching the paper, fall to his side, bringing his left hand up to his forehead. This was too much.

"Neither did I," Enjolras answered. He turned toward Combeferre, a somber sort of excitement in his expression. Combeferre knew that look. The angry line his eyebrows formed over blue eyes bright with passion. Enjolras was planning something.

Enjolras was_scheming_.

"We can work this to our advantage," he continued, subconsciously rubbing his jaw.

"Whoa," Combeferre interrupted. "No. There is no good to come of this. Enjolras, did you even read the letter? Lamarque is ill. Severely! He's the only one who speaks for-"

"Who speaks for the rights of the poor," Enjolras cut in, a rare grin stretching his face. His eyes sparked dangerously. "Don't you see where this could lead us? The great General Lamarque, ill with cholera, a disease some believe to be started by the government's poisoning of wells; as his life wanes, the people he stood to protect grow stronger. Their leader is dying! They need a way to move forward, to join together and stand for themselves!"

"They need us," Combeferre realized.

The pair met each other's eyes with wonder; it was happening. It really was.

"There is work to be done," Enjolras decided, turning back towards his desk.

"Should I tell the others?"

"Plan a meeting tonight, if you would. We'll announce it then."

Combeferre nodded, and made for the tavern. As soon as he was gone, Enjolras tucked the letter in his jacket pocket.

* * *

Grantaire peeked around the corner. He was very good at not getting caught. He should have been; how long now had he been peeking around the corner and into Enjolras' study with no one noticing him? Too long, he decided. Far, far too long.

Now, though, something interesting was happening, it looked like. Combeferre and Enjolras were engaged in a heated discussion about something very important-sounding. Everything was a little fuzzy... Grantaire couldn't tell the difference between having a hangover or just being drunk anymore. What Grantaire did notice, though, was the light in Enjolras' eyes. That ignition Grantaire lived for. He kept watching, Combeferre's back to him, mesmerized by the bright blues and soft yellows and glowing tans that made up his beautiful Enjolras. He watched the perfectly synchronized pull of muscle and bone as Enjolras moved; he studied the way his lips moved, too, the rapid shapes his mouth made in fluent French. With his eyes there, it was impossible for Grantaire not to notice Enjolras' sudden smile, one of those incredibly rare, heart-melting smiles that widened his face and crinkled around his eyes. It was the kind of smile Grantaire would give anything to have directed at him. He could imagine, ever so softly, tracing Enjolras' lips... Just gently, with the tip of his finger...

_Not yours._The words sounded in his head as if they belonged to someone else._Not yours to take. Not yours to want. _

_Not mine,_Grantaire remembered, and he brought the bottle in his hand to his lips._Never mine._But it wasn't anything a little brandy couldn't fix.

"Their leader is dying!" Grantaire heard Enjolras say. "They need a way to move forward, to join together and stand for themselves!"

Their leader?

Combeferre muttered something unintelligible, and Enjolras stared at him with unmistakable excitement.

_Damn_, Grantaire thought, disgruntled and wishing he'd heard what was said. But now that he was listening, Grantaire only heard what he'd heard a million times before: Enjolras declaring that there was work to be done. But then:

"Shall I tell the others?"

Oh, what information could they be hiding? Grantaire leaned in to hear better.

"Plan a meeting tonight, if you would," Enjolras answered. "We'll announce it then."

Combeferre began to turn, and Grantaire whirled from his spot behind the entrance to round the corner. He stumbled, tripping around himself so as to face the door Combeferre was emerging from.

"I wouldn't go in there, were I you," Combe warned Grantaire as he came into the hall. He left his voice just loud enough for Grantaire to hear. "Enjolras is busy."

"When isn't he busy?" Grantaire snapped in answer. Combeferre shrugged, and continued on for the staircase that led to the tavern, where he would find enough of the Amis to carry on the meeting message to the rest. Grantaire watched him go, waiting until his head disappeared around the wall before he approached the door again, safely hidden from view.

* * *

Enjolras sat at his desk, speedily penning letters with his head bent low over the papers spread across the table. There was so much to be done! The people of France had been suffering from famine, debt and disease for too long; they were on the brink of war as it was; it wouldn't take much to push them over the edge. Once the news of Lamarque's illness reached the people, it would send the peasant majority into a rampage._And when it does_, Enjolras vowed,_we will be ready._Ready to step up as their leader. Ready to guide them toward revolution. Soon, Patria would be free. Enjolras' hand began to tremble from excitement. Soon, his Patria would be _free_.

* * *

Grantaire observed Enjolras between swigs of liquor, bemused. It wasn't until Enjolras leaned back in his chair and ran his hand through his hair with a sigh that Grantaire decided something was terribly wrong. Enjolras never took a break from... Well, anything. With that in mind, he turned for the stairs, determined to know the contents of that letter before tonight. He needed a plan. He needed help.

* * *

Marius sat at a table in the tavern, holding a book in one hand, his cheek with the other. François-René de Chateaubriand's novel_Les Natches_, a rather recent book to be printed, was definitely not among Marius' favorites; however, it was required reading for class, and Marius had been through worse.

A loud stumble sounded from the stairs, and Marius looked up, relieved for the distraction. Combeferre had sent Bahorel and Courfeyrac to tell the others of a meeting planned tonight at seven, leaving Marius alone with Madame Huchloup and a few strangers. It had been much too quiet. Now, Grantaire came tripping down the stairs, scanning the room before locking eyes on Marius. He approached with quick steps, determination on his face and a near-empty bottle in his hand. Marius rose to greet him.

"Grantaire-"

"Marius, I need your help," Grantaire interrupted. "You know of the meeting tonight?"

Marius nodded, setting his book on the table behind him.

"I know of a way to find out what it's about before tonight. I fear it isn't a pleasant subject."

"You weren't spying on Enjolras again, were you?"

"I was," he replied, unabashed. "I need your help if I'm going to find out what's bothering him so deeply."

Marius nodded, not even pausing to consider. "What do we need to do?" At that moment, Joly entered the tavern.

"What's this about a meeting tonight?" he demanded. "I just got word from Bahorel. What's amiss?"

"That's what we're about to find out," Grantaire said. "Care to join us?"

* * *

Enjolras signed the letter with a flourish; there, one task complete. He reached for the pile of papers Courfeyrac had brought this morning, taking up an envelope and sliding a letter-opener under the seal.

"Enjolras," Marius' voice said from the doorway. Enjolras turned to find him with one foot in his study, the other out, his expression serious. "Joly and I have an important matter to discuss with you about tonight. Would you mind coming downstairs for a bit? We have lunch ready as well."

"Of course," Enjolras answered, leaving the letter on his desk for later and standing up to accompany Marius downstairs. He didn't see Grantaire slouching a few yards away from the door with a bottle of white wine, so he also didn't see Grantaire sneak into his study as he left the second floor with Marius.

Grantaire headed straight for Enjolras' desk, all business, setting his bottle on the wood to search for the letter. The weight of the bottle infinitesimally shook the desk, causing Enjolras' empty glass of water to catch Grantaire's eye, distracting him. He studied it for a moment, trapped in thought, before taking his bottle and filling Enjolras' glass halfway with white wine. He then proceeded to search for the letter. He found it atop a stack of papers, the seal already broken. His eager fingers quickly flipped open the top of the envelope, slipping the letter out from inside. He unfolded it quickly, his eyes poring over the words.

_There is a spy among your numbers. _

**I'll have chapter three up as soon as possible. Please review!**

**Love**

**Anna**


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